


Don't Tempt The Devil

by jungle_ride



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jungle_ride/pseuds/jungle_ride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wind is bitterly cold; it sweeps across the trees, rustling leaves and whipping itself around the lone figure in the night. The moon hangs high above him, a crescent beam in the sky casting a hazy white glow in what would otherwise be complete darkness. Silently he watches. The house is quieter now; Mrs Martin has departed, not set to return for two days. Everywhere in the house is dark, all except the dimly lit room on the top floor he knows is <i>hers</i>. He can hear the beating of her heat; it pulses in his ears like a symphony of crescendos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tempt The Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunspeared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspeared/gifts).



> Alright well first things first I really hope you like this. This was my first venture into the fanfiction world of Teen Wolf and Lydia/Peter. They’re one of my favourite pairings and I was absolutely thrilled to be doing them for you. Also can I say how much I appreciated your writer’s letter; I looked to Mr/Mrs Owl to help spur me on, especially when just like you said I was “sucking down gallons of your liquid stimulant of choice and praying to the writing gods for 500 more words, please, just 500 more words.” That pretty much summed me up xD
> 
> I decided to do Peter’s POV because I feel like we don’t get enough fic with his perspective on things. I’m really not sure if I got enough of the creepiness of this couple across in this fic (probably not) and I have no idea if it’s weird (in the sense you wanted, because I’m pretty sure it’s weird but whether that’s good or not is debatable) or uncomfortable or will make you twitch, but I gave it my best shot and hopefully you’ll enjoy what I came up with.

Peter Hale has always been one step ahead of everyone else. It’s not so much a skill as a natural occurrence, like breathing. In, out, in, out. Watch them all fall down. True, there have been a few, shall we call them _discrepancies_ , along the way. Getting flambéed by a group of teenagers definitely hadn’t been plan A or plan B but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t _planned_ for it. After all that was where Lydia Martin had come into play. _Dear_ Lydia, she really had been a perfect little safety net, serving her purpose well. Even more so, she’d been thoroughly entertaining whilst doing it, perhaps a little too entertaining.

For whilst Peter had relished in their little, how should he put it? _Hijacking? Co-dependency? Liaison?_ He’d never intended for it to go any further than his resurrection. But then Peter had never planned for Lydia Martin (a huge mistake in hindsight). Lydia Martin is an enigma of the rarest sorts and Peter, who had always considered himself a connoisseur of all things, finds Lydia _fascinating_. Was it any surprise that he’d wanted to try and crack the code, in his countless hours trapped inside her? It was only logically. Inevitable. 

Peter did what Peter Hale does best, he played, poked and prodded at the darkest halls of her mind, in attempts to twist her to his will. Turned her upside down and rubbed salt into gaping wounds and yet she had _still_ found a way to endure. Not only that but she’d given him as good as she got. Finding out his weakness and spitting venom in his face even as he drew blood from her. Despite himself Peter had come to admire her. Not many could go toe to toe with Peter Hale’s special brand of _manipulation_ (torture was such a harsh term) and survive. 

What had started out as a way to stay in the game, a means to an end had soon turned into a twisted case of…is there even word for their kind of relationship? He suspects not. Peter Hale has never been good at living inside boxes, why should this be any different. Whatever it had been between them, it grew steadily in their shared space, and before he could make sense of any of it, things were being dragged up from the pits of his charred soul. He had hoped that it would end when he finally had his own body back; that whatever was emerging was a mere transference of her mind on his, but if anything it has gotten increasingly worse since their separation. 

He’s tried to ignore it of course, bury whatever these _feelings_ were and leave them for dead. After all Peter has plans, ones he’s been working on for _years_ and they never included a sixteen year old girl as his lover, no matter how much his bones burn at the thought of her. 

He had done well too, but that was _before_ she appeared on his doorstep, all fiery hair and piercing eyes. He’s been lost to her ever since. He _wants_ her. _Craves_ her and each passing second without his claim marking her body leaves him hungry from the sheer _need_. There's a vague sense of wrong about the whole situation but when in his cursed past, has that ever deterred him? His moral centre, if he ever posed such a thing, has long since turned to ash. 

The wind is bitterly cold; it sweeps across the trees, rustling leaves and whipping itself around the lone figure in the night. The moon hangs high above him, a crescent beam in the sky casting a hazy white glow in what would otherwise be complete darkness. Silently he watches. The house is quieter now; Mrs Martin has departed, not set to return for two days. Everywhere in the house is dark, all except the dimly lit room on the top floor he knows is _hers_. He can hear the beating of her heat; it pulses in his ears like a symphony of crescendos. 

Peter has _surveillance_ (stalking is really such a crude word) Lydia Martin for weeks now. She’s a captivating study. The beauty and the brain all wrapped up in designer clothes and a tongue that she could and _would_ use to slice you in half. Not to mention what she could do with those screams of hers. Peter wonders vaguely if anyone has thought to teach her how to use the powers her banshee blood possesses. That was if they even knew the extent of them. Probably not. They weren’t exactly the brightest group of teens. Perhaps he should offer his services; it might make for an interesting game of power play. Peter pounders the idea for a moment, conjuring up imagery scenarios in his head. A wolf versus a banshee. Or better yet a _united_ team, with the occasional internal fight’s here and there (otherwise where’s the fun?). 

His lips twist upwards at the thought. What a pair they would make; an explosive concoction of ruthlessness and ambition. Peter will rip the throats out and Lydia, dressed to the nines will climb on the pile of bodies to reach, her? His? _Their_ goals. She’d enjoy the game (they both would), watching the audience lapped up their façade like starved children. Yes, what a pair they’ll be. _Unstoppable._

She knows it as well as him. This isn’t a one-sided affair. Lydia, for all her protests and death glares wants him just as bad, despite her better judgment. He can feel the truth of it in his blood; hear it in the way her heartbeat stutters out the syllables of his name in harsh broken beats. Pe-Ter Hale. Pe-Ter Hale. Duh-duh duh. Over and over throughout the days and nights, forever calling him back to her. 

Lydia _knows_ he’s been watching her. Has made an act of ignoring him, pretending he doesn’t exist as she undresses in front of the open window (she always leaves it open, an invitation if ever there was one). Sometimes when she’s feeling especially teasing she leaves the curtains pulled back too, so her naked body is in full view. So he can see the now scarred marks on her hip, the ones he gave her. A reminder that she is already half his. The image haunts him into restless sleep. 

She’s a smart girl and not nearly as naïve to the ways of the beast as she’d have Scott and his sorry excuse for a pack believe. How could she be, when Peter Hale had been in her mind for _months_? Yes Lydia knows _exactly_ what she's doing; Peter has no doubts. 

A sudden movement at the open (always open) window stirs him back to reality. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s her. She’s dressed in a crisp white slip of a nightgown, silk from the look of it. He smirks, always such refined taste, he’ll enjoying tearing it to shreds. Resting against the window sill Lydia turns her face towards the moon above. It bathes her in an illuminating glow, her skin shining porcelain. Her fiery hair cascades down over her shoulders blowing gently in the night wind. She's an appetising picture, a mouth-watering meal he wants to devour and savour. With a sly smile Lydia tilts her just _so_. She’s not looking at him but she’s not, _not_ looking either. It’s a perfect little pretence; one that will allow her to claim innocence later but still has him automatically taking two steps closer towards her. It’s a bold move. 

Her aroma, a mixture of blossoms and spring with a hint of wolf bane’s poison, lingers on the air. His tongue darts out to taste it but it gets blown away on another breeze. She’s too far away and tonight Peter’s had enough of the distance. Enough of this cat and mouse dance they’ve created. Neither can win, neither can lose but he’ll be damned if the ride isn’t worth it. She’s tempted the devil to breaking point; now let’s see what she does when he comes to call.


End file.
